


When The Road Runs Out

by Polomonkey



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Era, Collars, Dark! Uther, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic Reveal, Slavery, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-02-26 08:42:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2645486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polomonkey/pseuds/Polomonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Merlin's magic is revealed, Uther attempts to enslave him as a collared sorcerer. Can Merlin count on Arthur to save him or has the Prince been poisoned against him by the King's lies?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First attempt at canon era fic! Set vaguely around the start of season two, but certain details may be fudged to fit the story. Bit dark in some places, do read the tags.

Merlin’s magic is discovered on a perfectly normal day in May, his second year in Camelot. 

It had been a tense few months. When word reached the court that Cenred was training collared sorcerers to fight in battle for him, the King had reacted badly. The strictures on magic were tweaked to be even tighter than before, the punishments handed out to suspected sorcerers more severe. Council meetings were dominated by discussion on how to counter the magical threat; and Uther prowled the halls of the castle like a man possessed, leaving servants and nobles alike cowering in his wake. A mood of watchful unease had settled over the city, as though waiting for a calamity. 

Morgana had gone to visit Lord and Lady Harrington in the North, taking Gwen with her. She claimed the visit would help foster good relations with an important ally, but Merlin suspects she just wanted to get away from Camelot for a while. He envies her. With Morgana gone, Arthur bears the brunt of Uther’s impatience and displeasure, and consequently Merlin has to deal with Arthur in a semi-constant foul mood.

He makes allowances for Arthur that he might not normally make, however. Uther really is unpleasable – made happy neither by feasts nor jousts. Everything draws his critical eye, from the knight’s training, to the cook’s food, to the very way the servants pour the wine. Arthur often gets the sharp end of his tongue, and so Merlin tries not to mind when the Prince snaps at him in turn. Merlin knows how Arthur longs to please his father, how he takes any criticism from him deeply to heart. So he holds his peace and refrains from challenging Arthur as he normally would, at least until things to return to normal. 

Despite Merlin’s private vow, a day comes when he cannot stay silent. It’s the day a traveller is arrested for selling ‘good luck charms’, though it takes less than a minute for Gaius to ascertain they are completely devoid of magical properties. Merlin is in the great hall with Arthur when the man is dragged before the King.

Except he isn’t a man, not really. Looking close, Merlin can see he’s barely sixteen years. Yet apparently he’s old enough to be condemned for selling “magical artefacts”. 

“They’re only for decoration,” the boy pleads, forced to his knees in front of Uther. “There’s no magic in ‘em. They’re just a bit of fun.”

“Fun?” Uther says coldly. “You would make a mockery of Camelot’s laws by parading such trinkets?”

The boy quails under Uther’s glare.

“I meant no harm,” he says miserably.

There is a long silence, the onlookers in the hall standing unnaturally still. 

“A night in the dungeons,” Uther says eventually, and the tension in the room eases somewhat. Arthur turns back to the scroll in his hand, and Merlin can read the faint relief in his face.

“Followed by eight lashes in the square,” Uther continues, and there’s a collective intake of breath. Merlin himself is shocked. He’s been here long enough to recognise the unwarranted severity of the sentence. He’s seen pedlars and merchants with similar wares before; the harshest penalty given is usually the injunction to move on to another town. 

“Please…” the boy whimpers.

“Consider yourself lucky,” Uther spits. “If there’d been even a drop of magic within these baubles, I’d have seen you hang.”

He nods at the guards, who come forward to haul the boy to his feet. He’s crying now, the tears staining his face making him seem even younger than before. Merlin feels his stomach roil unpleasantly. A flogging is usually reserved for criminals of wickeder intent – thieves, and bandits, men who commit violent crimes. Not skinny sixteen year old boys trying to sell crudely painted pebbles in exchange for food. 

It’s cruel and unjust.

He turns to Arthur, hoping against hope that the Prince might try and mediate with his father, but Arthur’s face has shut down. Merlin feels frustration rising in him. Arthur’s not going to say anything. Even though he can see Arthur’s discomfort in the tightness of his jaw, even though he knows there’s no way Arthur advocates the flogging of children for what was barely a crime: Arthur won’t speak up against his father.

Merlin bites his lip till it hurts, listening to the sobs of the boy as he’s dragged from the room.

He can’t let it go, though. When he’s tending the fire that night in Arthur’s room, he risks mentioning the incident. Arthur merely grunts, not looking up from the letter he’s writing.

“Is eight lashes the usual punishment for that kind of thing?” Merlin says carefully.

“No,” Arthur replies shortly.

“Right. I just thought… well, I remembered those travellers selling the amulets last winter, and the King only told the guards to move them along, and I-”

“What exactly is your point, Merlin?”

Arthur’s voice has just the faintest hint of iron to it.

Merlin girds himself, and gets up from the fire.

“I think the King was wrong in his judgement today,” he says quietly.

Arthur fixes him with a look.

“Such talk is treasonous.”

“He was a boy, Arthur. Barely sixteen summers. The charms were only ornamental.”

Arthur sighs, putting his quill down.

“Sorcery is on the rise. We have to be more vigilant, and false trails like these can prove to be fatal distractions. I assume the King intends the sentence to serve as a deterrent to similar trinket sellers.”

“I don’t think anyone took his charms to be true magic, Arthur. Camelot doesn’t need to be vigilant against every stripling with a market stall,” Merlin argues, irritated by the fact that Arthur is simply parroting his father’s words, with very little conviction of his own.

“Threats to the kingdom can come from the unlikeliest of places Merlin, and we would be fools not to take every warning into account.”

“But surely you don’t agree-”

“Enough! Whether or not I agree with my father is immaterial. He is my King, and as such I will bow to his commands.”

Merlin feels a kind of cold trickle down his back. That was the true crux of it, wasn’t it? Arthur might not believe in what Uther said, but he would uphold his father’s laws anyway. Even if a boy is to be put to the whip. Even if Merlin is found out to be…

He swallows the thought down quickly, turning to busy himself with Arthur’s ripped tunic. He can feel Arthur’s gaze upon him as he works but he does not turn around.

“Merlin,” Arthur’s voice comes, softer than before. “I don’t like it any more than you do, frankly. But my father is resolute. And the boy will survive eight lashes.”

Merlin doesn’t point out that it only takes one lash to cause an infection that could prove deadly. He knows that Arthur is offering an olive branch, but a part of him doesn’t want to take it. How many more must be punished like this, to satisfy Uther’s bottomless rage? How many more must die?

“I will take these plates now, sire,” he says quietly, lifting the leftovers of dinner from the table. Arthur looks pained, but nods.

“I shall see myself to bed tonight, you may retire. But be back to wake me at dawn, I wish for us to go hunting early tomorrow.”

Merlin assents and hurries from the room. It’s not until he’s climbing into bed himself that he wonders if Arthur’s sudden desire for a hunt has to do with not wanting Merlin to witness the flogging tomorrow. The thought makes him grateful, and also angry, and his sleep is uneasy that night.

 

_____________________________________________________________________________

 

It’s one week after the charm seller’s punishment that Merlin’s secret is exposed.

It’s not a rogue sorcerer or any kind of magical attack that does for him in the end. At least being discovered in the act of saving Arthur or Uther’s life might have lent him some credit. As it is, the enemy to vanquish is no more than a stone in the wall. A stone that comes loose halfway through a banquet to celebrate the visit of Lord Fairfax.

The shame of it is, Merlin genuinely likes Lord Fairfax. Of all the visiting nobles he’s been assigned to serve since he came to Camelot, Lord Fairfax is easily the most gracious. A quiet, softly spoken man, his gentle demeanour hid a keen and sharp mind. Merlin had been tasked to carry his trunk to his room, and had been pleasantly surprised to unpack not weapons or hunting regalia, but books. Lord Fairfax had caught him lingering over the volumes, and, rather than remonstrating with him for impropriety, had opened up several of the tomes to show Merlin the beautifully printed illustrations and fine penmanship. The fact that the Lord also treated his young daughter Elizabeth with great respect and kindness confirmed Merlin’s good opinion of him.

It’s this good opinion that causes Merlin to keep a closer eye than usual on Lord Fairfax at the feast, ready and eager to meet his needs. For a lesser, meaner noble, he might not have been watching so solicitously. But as it is, he is the only one to spot the huge stone as it comes loose from the wall and plummets down towards Lord Fairfax’s head.

It’s pure instinct, as on the very first day he came to Camelot and saved Gauis’ life. There’s no time to think or even incant a spell, he simply raises his hand and the stone freezes in the air, hovering three metres above the Lord.

Instantly, the eyes of the hall are upon him, and the realisation of what he’s done hits him like a mace to the stomach. His concentration on the suspended stone slips for a second and he gasps, quickly flicking his hand to let the stone fly backwards and smash harmlessly onto an empty patch of floor.

There are a few seconds of complete and utter silence and then the King jumps to his feet.

“Seize him!” he roars, face purple with rage. 

Frantically, Merlin’s eyes flick across the room; gaze falling for a moment on Lord Fairfax’s pale countenance. He’s staring at Merlin with naked fear in his eyes, and too late it occurs to him how his actions must have appeared more like an assassination attempt than a rescue.

The guards are almost upon him and he only has time to turn his head and seek out Arthur’s eyes before they drag him from the room.

Arthur looks… shocked. And betrayed. Merlin wants to tell the truth, for what little it will count in Uther’s court, but he only has time to shout “Arthur!” once, desperately, before the doors slam shut behind him.

 

__________________________________________________________________

 

The guards take him deeper in the dungeons than he’s ever been before, and it’s not long before he learns why.

He’s thrust into a cell and shoved to the floor, guards locking his hands securely into a pair of manacles hanging from the wall. 

The minute the manacles close around his wrists, he feels the change. It’s a bit like suddenly being held underwater, everything distorts. The feeling subsides slightly after a few moments, but when he reaches for his magic, he finds it muffled, as though trapped under a blanket.

The manacles are clearly specially made to suppress magic; he must be in one of the cells used in the great purge. He can certainly feel the disorientation inside himself. And yet, he knows he can still reach his magic. It’s harder; the source of power feels fuzzy and muddled. But as he hears the guard’s footsteps recede he concentrates hard and manages to send a stone skittering from one end of the cell to the other. It takes much more effort than it normally would, like he’s forcing his magic through a space too tight for it, but he can do it. He knows he will be able to crack the manacles when the time comes, and make his escape.

Escape? How did it come to this? Merlin leans back against the wall, the adrenaline from the feast finally subsiding, quickly replaced by shock and grief. He has been found out. And now he has to leave, and he has no way of knowing when he can return, if ever. So much for destiny.

Merlin thinks of Arthur; the betrayal on his face. He never got to tell him on his own terms, never got to show him the good that magic could do. Now Arthur’s memory of him will be that of a traitor, who tried to kill a Lord and then fled in the night.

A sob rises in his throat and Merlin suppresses it. No. He refuses to believe it ends this way. How could the Great Dragon have spoken so much of his and Arthur’s twin destiny, if exile was his final destination? This must be part of his fated path. Either it’s necessary for destiny that he goes away to one day return, or he isn’t going anywhere. There’s still a chance that Arthur might come and find him in this cell, hear his side of the story, talk to his father…

He takes several deep breaths, trying to clear his head. His magic must have been revealed for a reason, he just doesn’t know what it is yet. Now is not the time to brood. He needs to plan his course of action.

He won’t crack the shackles yet. The castle is still very much awake; he needs to wait until most are asleep to take his leave. If possible, he would also like to sneak by his room before he goes, less for his possessions than for a moment to say goodbye to Gaius…

Gaius. Sorrow swells in Merlin. What if destiny demands he be away from Camelot for a prolonged time? What if by the time he returns, Gaius is-

It doesn’t bear thinking about. He tries to calm himself again, but his heart is racing. 

Why did this have to happen?

The thought torments him. He looks around the cell for distraction, and his eyes fall on a bundle of rags in the next cell along. He stares for a while, thoughts swarming in his brain, and then nearly cries out when the bundle moves.

If he strains his eyes in the dim light, he can see the outline of a man, though one so emaciated it’s a wonder he breathes at all. His clothes are mere rags, yet it looks as if they once were quite fine robes. Merlin can just about make out strange markings on the man’s face and arms…

A druid. There’s a druid locked down here in the secret cells. The cells where no-one comes anymore.

Merlin puts it together in his mind. Uther cannot be seen to declare war on the druids without risking reprisals. So when he captures one, there is no trial or execution. He simply leaves them down here to rot, unseen by the people. 

Merlin is sickened. He has never had any love for the King, but he at least could concede that Uther acted according to some sort of moral code. But there is no honour in this. This is cowardice, plain and simple. The druids are a peaceful people. The man clearly committed no crime, or else there would have been a trial. He’s simply been left to die here.

How many times has Uther done this?

He tries to speak to the man, but receives only groans in return. He wants to reach out with his magic, but is aware he needs to preserve his energy to be able to break the manacles when the time comes. He tries to whisper soothing words into the dark. If he can, he swears he will come back for this man. Although the wrench in his gut tells him that the druid doesn’t have long left.

He’s so wrapped up in his attempts to make contact he fails to hear the footsteps approaching the cell. Then there’s a sudden clang on the bars, and he looks up, startled.

The King stares back at him, anger barely contained.

“Your execution is set, sorcerer. You die at dawn.”

Merlin says nothing.

“This, you cannot change. However, the means of execution is not yet fixed.”

Uther gestures to his accompanying guard, who comes forward to unlock the cell door. Uther steps inside.

“Tell me of your plans against Lord Fairfax and Camelot, or name me any co-conspirators in your crimes, and I will see you are dispatched with a single, painless swing of the headman’s axe. Remain silent, and it will be the drawn out agony of the pyre for you.”

Merlin looks up at Uther with loathing. He feels no fear of the man now, only contempt. 

“I’m waiting.”

Merlin spits on the ground at Uther’s feet. Enraged, Uther surges forward to grab Merlin by the hair, pulling his head back painfully.

“You dare defy me? I’ll see you burnt for hours, sorcerer, until your skin is black as coal and your flesh sizzles like roasted meat.”

A hollow, bitter laugh echoes through the cell and it takes Merlin a moment to realise it’s not coming from him.

Uther releases his hair in surprise and turns to the cell next to them, where the bundle of rags is slowly sitting up.

“You’ve met your match this time,” the druid wheezes, his voice as dry as sand. Sitting up has brought him into the light, and Merlin winces to see the skin stretched over the skeletal face, the eyes like pits of tar. He’s seen the body of a woman who starved to death before, back in Ealdor, and the druid looks no better. Merlin would be surprised if he even lasted the night.

He’s so horrified by the way the druid looks that he doesn’t register what the man has said until Uther barks “What?” beside him.

“You think you can burn him?” the druid rasps. “You think you’re the man to kill the greatest warlock of all time?”

Oh no. No no no. He has a strong feeling Uther finding out that he’s more than just a mere conjurer would be very bad for his wellbeing.

“Peace, my friend,” he whispers urgently but the druid doesn’t seem to hear him.

“You are raving.” Uther says.

The druid laughs again, and it turns into a racking cough.

“I am right. That boy is beyond your power. You cannot kill Emrys.”

A shadow passes over Uther’s face.

“Emrys?” he says, and he sounds almost afraid.

The druid smiles, though it looks more like a grimace.

“Your doom is here, Uther Pendragon,” he croaks. And without warning, his eyes roll back in his head, and he slumps to the ground.

There is a moment of silence in the cell. Then Merlin tears his eyes from the prone body back to the King beside him.

The look on Uther’s face sends a chill through him and he knows with a sudden clarity that he has to make his escape now, _right now,_ before it’s too late. 

The King steps forward just as Merlin forces his magic through his body, expending all the energy he has to crack the two shackles down the middle and free his aching arms.

But the effort is too much, and before he can summon up the spell to take him far away from here, the King is upon him. He feels something heavy crash down upon his head, and then he knows no more.

 

_____________________________________________________________________

 

He comes to awareness slowly. The physical sensations make themselves known first; the cold stone against his cheek, the dull ache in his head. Then his mind engages, enfolding him in quick and potent terror as he recalls the conversation in the cells, the calculation in Uther’s eyes. 

Then finally, the horrible aching loss. For a moment Merlin thinks he’s gone deaf, or blind; because something that should be there in his body is completely absent. But he can see the stone floor he’s lying on, can hear the sound of his own heart beating in his chest. So his senses aren’t missing. What’s missing is…

The revelation hits him like a ton of bricks. He can’t feel his magic. At all.

Panic floods him as he struggles to sit up. There are no shackles on his wrists, no cold iron pressed against him; so where is his magic? Has Uther taken it from him? Is that even possible?

He searches desperately inside himself but there’s nothing, not a trace, not even a whisper of his power remaining…

“How does it feel?” says a quiet voice behind him.

Merlin turns, supporting his weak body on hands and knees.

Uther is sat in a chair behind him, against the backdrop of what Merlin now realises is the King’s own personal chamber. His hands are clasped in front of him and his face is calm, devoid of the rage that disfigured it in the dungeons. It’s somehow much more terrifying.

“How did-” Merlin manages to choke out before words fail him, because he has no doubt the King is referring to his newfound lack of power.

“The collar,” Uther says, one hand flicking casually towards Merlin’s throat. 

With shaky hands Merlin reaches up to touch his neck, and his fingers meet a wide metal band, engraved with words or symbols that he cannot see. His fingers grope round the back instantly, looking for a release clasp, but there is none, only a tiny ring hook set into the back. The whole band feels smooth, like there’s no join where it was melded together. Merlin knows instantly that it’s an object of magic.

“I was disinclined to believe the ramblings of your Druidic friend,” Uther says evenly, as though in answer to a question Merlin had voiced. “But then you broke the cold iron shackles. No sorcerer of average power could achieve such a feat.”

Merlin is barely listening, his fingers still frantically tracing the etchings in the collar, as though they might hold the key to his escape.

“And yet, I have seen such feats before. There have been sorcerers possessed of such magic that cold iron cannot contain them. For them, stronger restraints were fashioned.”

Uther gestures at the collar that Merlin still tugs at. 

“I have not had cause to use this collar in twenty years, but I have always kept it close. I knew it may one day be needed.”

He smiles thinly.

“You will not break through this one. Even if you are… Emrys.”

“I’m not,” Merlin says instantly, desperately. “I don’t know what that man was talking about.”

“Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it. I have arranged for proof of my own.”

The King’s voice is still even and low. Merlin has seen him wild and raging about magic before, on the edge of sanity, but he has never seen him speak so steadily of sorcery. He appears to be completely in control of himself, of the situation, and it makes Merlin shiver.

Uther leans forward, about to speak again, when there is a knock on the chamber door.

“Enter,” he calls.

A guard comes into the room, followed by a cloaked and hooded man.

“Cyrus Ambrose, sire, as requested,” he says deferentially, gesturing to the man behind him.

Uther nods, dismissing the guard with a flick of his hand.

The cloaked man steps into the room, slowly drawing down his hood to reveal a sallow face and close set eyes, framed by wispy grey hair.

“Your highness,” he says, bowing low.

“Ambrose,” the King nods. “Did you bring it?”

“I did, sire. Is this the boy?”

Ambrose turns his beady gaze on Merlin, who attempts to scramble to his feet.

“Stay down,” the King says, in a tone that brooks no argument. Merlin’s too disorientated for defiance, he sinks back to the floor.

“He does not resemble the Emrys of legend,” Ambrose says with a slight sneer. 

“That is for you to ascertain,” Uther replies, unsmiling.

Ambrose makes another short bow.

“As you wish, sire.”

He moves to stand over Merlin who shrinks back suddenly, because even in his befuddled state he understands this is the man Uther has called for “proof”. Is Ambrose a hired interrogator? Will he torture him until he confesses to being Emrys?

Ambrose reaches into his cloak and Merlin steels himself for what arcane device might be produced. But it’s only a vial filled with a dull green liquid, barely two swallows full.

“Open your mouth,” Ambrose directs, unstoppering the vial, and Merlin shakes his head, clamping his lips together. Uther steps forward but Ambrose only laughs.

“Allow me, sire,” he says, and in a move that belies his aged appearance, spryly knocks Merlin backwards to the floor and climbs onto him to straddle his chest, knees pinning Merlin’s arms to his side. One bony hand reaches out to hold Merlin’s nose, the other clutches the vial in readiness.

Merlin struggles but his physical strength has never been his best asset, and he’s fatally weakened by the blow to his head and the horrible draining effect of the collar. Ambrose waits, patiently, until the pressure in his chest builds to unbearable levels and he just has to open his mouth to take in some air. Quick as a flash, Ambrose forces the vial’s neck into his mouth, tipping the contents down his throat. Then he presses his hand over Merlin’s mouth to make sure he swallows.

Satisfied, Ambrose gets to his feet, and Merlin cautiously sits up. The liquid had not tasted particularly unpleasant or bitter and Merlin wonders what it’s supposed to do.

He gets his answer five seconds later when a piercing pain slices through his stomach, bending him double. He barely has time to cry out before the pain has spread throughout his body, lancing like fire along his limbs, into his chest, his throat. It’s like nothing he’s felt before, a white hot agony that constricts his muscles and causes his extremities to spasm uncontrollably. He’s screaming, rolling back and forth on the floor, unable to think about anything other than the unremitting torment consuming his flesh, he can’t stand it, he’d rather die, make it stop, make it stop, _make it stop…_

Then, suddenly, it’s over. He’s lying on his back, breath coming in ragged gasps, shaking like a leaf.

The room comes back into focus. Two faces hover above him. Dimly, he registers the shock on Ambrose’s face, and the tightness of Uther’s jaw.

“I didn’t think it was true,” Ambrose murmurs, half-awed.

“Can you be certain?” Uther snaps.

“It interacts directly with the amount of the power in the blood, sire. The most I’ve ever seen is a mild discomfort. Even that High Priestess we had was only wincing. She said it felt like stomach cramps.”

Ambrose leans forward, hand outstretched, and Merlin shies away, not wanting to be touched by this monster.

“Ambrose,” Uther raps out and the man freezes, before retracting his hand. “That is all for tonight.”

“Yes sire,” Ambrose says, bowing.

“However, I shall have need of your services again.”

Uther’s eyes bore into the other man’s.

“For training purposes.”

A half smile flits across Ambrose’s face, and he nods.

“I will go home and gather my materials.”

“Very well. I will send for you.”

Uther turns away and Ambrose drops one last craven bow before leaving the chambers.

The sound of the door shutting seems to echo in Merlin’s throbbing head.

“So,” Uther says softly. “All this time, you’ve been hiding in plain sight.”

Merlin hauls himself up to sit again, accepting that his twitching limbs won’t let him stand for now.

“How long have you been plotting against us, sorcerer?” Uther hasn’t raised his voice yet but Merlin can sense the oncoming storm. “How long have you been working against Camelot from the inside?”

“I haven’t-”

“Silence,” Uther says calmly. “I have no need for your lies. Whatever your plans were, you have failed. Your evil has been contained.”

“So you’ll put me to the pyre,” Merlin spits, all of a sudden too angry to be afraid. “Without fair trial, without hearing my story. Behold the almighty justice of Camelot.”

Unexpectedly, horribly, Uther smiles.

“You won’t be put to the pyre. What use are your ashes to me?”

Merlin doesn’t understand. He’s not going to be executed?

“The dungeons, then-” he says haltingly, and Uther smiles wider.

“I think not. Why put all that treacherous power to waste when I can harness it for the good of my people?”

His gaze bores in Merlin.

“You’re going to be my collared sorcerer. You’re going to be my weapon.”

“No,” Merlin says, struggling to his feet despite the pain it causes. “I won’t do it. I won’t use my magic in service of your butchery.”

He’d rather die here and now, than let himself become Uther’s puppet. He won’t use his magic to maim and kill, to garner more power for the tyrant King.

“But you will. If you wish to protect those you love.”

Merlin does a frantic search in his mind, trying to guess which of his loved ones Uther is threatening. He wouldn’t hurt Gaius, surely, and Arthur and Morgana are safe by virtue of being Uther’s family. Merlin’s not sure if Uther knows Gwen is his friend, but she’s safely away in the North, he can’t touch her…

“Two knights have been dispatched to Ealdor to retrieve your mother.”

Merlin’s blood runs cold.

“I won’t kill her, not right away. She’ll be tortured first, over a long period of time, maybe months. I have experts in my employ; they’ll make sure she stays alive to endure it all. She’ll be kept in the dungeons, of course. Some nights, I may throw her in a cell with whatever bandits and rogues have been arrested that day; see what they make of her.”

Merlin lunges for the King, pulse hammering, hands desperate to tear and scratch at whatever flesh he can find.

The King repels him easily, grabbing his thin wrists and holding him in place even as Merlin struggles weakly.

“Is that what you want, sorcerer? To see the woman who bore you tortured and degraded? Because believe me, I’ll make you watch every second of it.”

He releases Merlin, sending him sprawling back across the floor.

“Submit to me, and she will not be harmed.” 

Rage and despair are coursing through Merlin’s body, clouding his already pain-addled mind. He’s dizzy with Uther’s cruelty, the tyranny of his actions. He cannot submit to Uther, not ever! But if he doesn’t…

His mother’s face comes into his head. He could never let anyone touch her. It’s not really a choice at all.

“I submit,” he mutters, eyes on the floor.

“What was that?”

“I submit,” he grinds out, and he looks up to see the triumph in Uther’s eyes.

“Very good, sorcerer,” Uther intones. “Or should I say, ‘slave’?”

Without warning, he reaches down to grab Merlin by his hair and begins pulling him across the room. When they reach the end of Uther’s bed, he takes a length of rope from his desk and ties Merlin tightly to the bedframe by his wrists. 

“I have business to attend to,” he says. “When I return, I will lay out the conditions of your new position.”

As Uther strides away, Merlin gathers together what little courage he has left.

“Arthur won’t let you do this.”

Merlin expects rage, but when the King turns, he looks victorious. 

“Whatever misguided loyalty my son felt towards you was vanquished the second you cast that spell. He is in full agreement with me.”

“No,” Merlin says, because he doesn’t believe it and he won’t. Arthur would never agree to this. It must be a trick, Uther must have imprisoned him, locked him up, that’s the only reason he hasn’t come to save Merlin yet…

“Who do you think it was who told me your mother lived in Ealdor?” Uther says, with the air of someone playing a trump card. “Who do you think told me who the person you loved most in the world was?”

“No,” Merlin repeats, but it’s more of a whisper this time. _Arthur wouldn’t, he couldn’t…_

“It was his idea,” Uther says, smiling cruelly. “He informed me I’d never keep you in line without something to hold over your head. He advised me on how to proceed.”

“I don’t believe you,” Merlin says, his voice cracking. 

“Does it come as such a shock? That the man you lied to for years might turn against you? That my son might be disgusted and repelled to learn that he kept such close counsel with a plotting sorcerer?”

Merlin winces, Uther’s words cutting to the bone. Could it really be true?

The King sees his doubt, and he laughs briefly.

“You’ll see for yourself, soon enough.”

Then he turns on his heel and exits the chamber, leaving Merlin to agonise over all he has heard.

 

_________________________________________________________________________________

 

He doesn’t know how long he sits there on the cold stone floor, hands tied above his head. Uther may think he has Merlin trapped, but it’s not over yet. He has destiny on his side, and surely the dragon didn’t intend for him to live a life of servitude and repression under Uther’s boot. There must be a way out; he just has to find it.

He tries to plan, but realises quickly that all his schemes involve magic in some form or another. It’s hard to accept that that particular tool is no longer at his disposal. 

His lack of magic makes it very unlikely he’ll escape under his own steam, unless he gets incredibly lucky. He’ll need help.

The girls aren’t here but Gaius is on his side, and he’s been around long enough to know a few tricks. Surely he can think of something.

_And there’s Arthur…_

Merlin’s been deliberately trying not to think of Arthur.

He can’t believe what Uther told him, and yet he can’t dismiss it out of hand either. How else would Uther have known where his mother lived? 

It seems like an unforgivable betrayal. How could Arthur use his mother like that?

But then, from Arthur’s perspective, Merlin is a dangerous sorcerer. As far as he’s concerned, he saw Merlin attempt to assassinate Lord Fairfax. And all he’s heard since then is Uther whispering in his ear about how Merlin’s been working against Camelot the whole time, for his own evil ends. 

_Does it come as such a shock? That the man you lied to for years might turn against you?_

He has lied. For good reasons, but Arthur doesn’t know that. He’d hoped the time he’d spent with Arthur so far might have proved his loyalty, but if Uther’s poisoned Arthur against him…

Merlin can’t bear to think about it. But even if Arthur is angry at him now, surely he’ll never allow Uther to enslave him like this. It’s inhumane. And Arthur has never been cruel.

The topic of Arthur is too painful so Merlin pushes it from his mind, instead trying to formulate a plan. But his head is pounding, his body still trembling slightly from the agony of the potion, and he’s so tired…

He must have drifted off at some point because he wakes to a hand slapping his face and he jerks away in panic, momentarily unable to remember where he is.

Then he looks at Uther’s face above him and it all comes back.

“I have met with the council,” Uther says, as smoothly as if they were picking up a previous conversation. “They have approved my course of action.”

Merlin feels a rush of anger at the thought of a group of old men deciding his future. Unanimously agreeing to sentence him to torment and slavery.

And yet surely some must have balked at the idea of using magic, no matter to what end. Uther’s abrupt volte-face will not be easy for everyone to accept, given long years of insistence that magic will be tolerated under no circumstances.

He supposes it doesn’t matter if they balked. Uther has the final say, and recent months have proved that he’s increasingly closed off to advice or argument.

Uther settles himself in his chair. 

“They have assisted me in drawing up a set of guidelines for your new position.”

He indicates the scroll in his hand. 

“Your days will be spent training your magic for Camelot’s benefits. You will study spells that can be of use in battle-”

“How?” Merlin snarls. “I’m fairly certain you executed everyone that might have taught me.”

“Ambrose remains loyal to me,” Uther says. “And he is a competent instructor. I knew there might be a time when his services would be required again.” 

“Hypocrite,” Merlin hisses. “You profess to hate magic, yet you have no qualms about harnessing it for your own advantage.”

“You think that makes me a hypocrite, boy?” Uther fixes him with a cold eye, rising to his feet. “It makes me a leader. Let the monks and scholars keep their hands clean and their souls pure. A leader is one with the strength to do what is necessary. Cenred has forced my hand, and I am more than prepared to beat him at his own game.” 

“You can’t-”

A backhand to the face stops Merlin mid-sentence.

“Don’t forget yourself, slave. Your opinion is of no interest to me.”

Merlin clenches his aching jaw, rage coursing through his body. Uther surveys him before continuing.

“When Ambrose is not training you, you will serve me.”

Merlin feels a bubble of hysteria rising within him, and he almost laughs.

“You never thought me much of a manservant before.”

“You will not be my manservant,” Uther says calmly. “You will be my slave. You will wear what I say, eat when I say, sleep when I say. You will crawl behind me when I walk, kneel beside me when I sit. And thus Camelot shall be under no illusions about the power their King wields over sorcerers.” 

Merlin feels bile rising in his throat. Uther doesn’t just want him as a weapon; he wants to humiliate him too. To show the world he can degrade the legendary Emrys; that he can control magic itself.

“You no longer have a name,” Uther continues. “You are property. You answer to everyone in the castle now; there are none lower than you. Whatever they command you to do, you will obey. Your days of insubordination are over; there will be no mercy like my son has shown you in the past.” 

There is nothing in Uther’s eyes but keen, sharp hatred.

“I refuse,” Merlin chokes out.

“Then your mother’s wellbeing is forfeit.”

He’d forgotten. He has no choice. Hot tears spring to Merlin’s eyes and he forces them away before Uther sees.

It’s bad enough that his magic’s going to be used without his permission; he can’t bear the indignity of being subject to this man. Or to anyone else who chooses to order him about.

He thinks of his friends amongst the servants and townsfolk, and even some of the knights. How will he look them in the eye?

Then he thinks of his enemies, and a shudder runs through him. There have always been knights and squires that have begrudged him his closeness with Arthur; servants that have resented the freedom of speech Arthur allows him. What will they do him, when he is forced to follow their commands? He imagines their triumph at his shame, their mocking eyes upon him. 

Uther is watching him very closely.

“You begin to understand,” he says, his tone offhandedly cruel. “I can devise no better punishment for a traitor at the heart of court, than to become slave to the court. No doubt some men may want to take revenge on you for their suffering at the hands of magic, this I will allow.”

He pauses, and a very small smile begins to play at the corner of his mouth.

“No doubt some men may want to make use of you in other ways. This I will also allow.”

Merlin doesn’t understand, and then suddenly, horribly, he does.

“You can’t-” he gasps, chest constricting with horror.

“I can. May it be a valuable lesson in knowing your place. You are nothing but a tool to be used for the benefit of Camelot.”

There is obvious relish in his voice. Merlin can see that the idea of the great Emrys subjugated on every level is a source of infinite pleasure to Uther.

“You disgust me,” he spits.

Uther smiles, and it’s a terrible thing.

“It’s you who’ll be disgusting, sorcerer. When they whip your back until your skin hangs off, or when they fill your mouth and arse so full of seed you’ll be dripping with it.”

Merlin rears back, sick to his stomach, seared by the naked loathing in Uther’s voice. The King has lost all sense of proportion or reason; relinquished whatever tenuous grip on reality he retained. There’s nothing left but a yearning for brutal, sadistic revenge. Like he’s a symbol for all magic users everywhere, Uther intends to slake his lust for retribution on Merlin’s body and soul.

He is numb with fear, choking back the vomit clawing at his throat as Uther comes closer. Oh God, will Uther touch him now, do those terrible things to him?

But Uther interprets his fear correctly and his lip curls in disgust.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I would rather sever my own hand than reach for a sorcerer with lustful intent.”

Instead he slices through the ropes binding Merlin so that his hands fall to his sides.

“Clean these chambers. And do a better job than you do on my son’s, or you’ll find out how a real master punishes disobedience.”

He walks towards the door, then turns at the last moment.

“You will be presented to the court tonight. Be ready.”

 

____________________________________________________________________________

 

Merlin spends ten minutes mechanically tidying after Uther leaves before nausea overwhelms him and he’s sick in the chamber pot. Once his stomach is purged he curls up on his side, gasping, overwhelmed with panic and fear.

His magic’s gone. Arthur hates him. Uther controls him. And the men of the court are going to beat him and r-r-

He vomits again, unable to even think the word, but there’s nothing to come up so he’s left dry heaving wretchedly, his throat burning.

He’s still lying on his side, unable to move, when someone enters the room.

His mind has gone elsewhere, unable to process the horror; and he only comes back to himself when he feels fingers stroking through his hair, before coming down to touch the collar round his neck.

He shies away, terrified, until he hears a familiar voice.

“Oh my boy. What has he done to you?”

He pushes himself to a sitting position and turns to see his guardian crouched beside him.

“G-Gaius?” he says, and bursts into tears.

The physician reaches forward, pulling him into an embrace. Merlin leans into Gaius’ shoulder, sobbing like a child. 

They stay like that for a while, and then Gaius draws back.

“Merlin, I’m afraid I haven’t long. I’m being kept under watch, and my chambers are guarded.”

“What?” Merlin sniffs, attempting to wipe his eyes on his sleeve. “Why are you under watch?”

“Uther suspects me of knowing about your magic. He has no proof as yet, but it’s enough to confine me for now.”

“I didn’t tell him,” Merlin swears. “And I won’t, I promise.”

Gaius shakes his head sadly.

“I am not worried for myself, Merlin. Are you alright? Are you injured anywhere?”

“No. I was hit on the head but it doesn’t hurt too much,” Merlin says quickly, even as Gaius feels around his head for the lump, before tracing his fingers across the bruise on Merlin’s jaw. 

Gaius turns his gaze to the collar, his eyes looking infinitely pained.

“Do you know how to get it off?” Merlin asks, suddenly spying a way out of all this. But his heart sinks when Gaius shakes his head.

“I have seen it before, though not for a long time. It can only be opened or closed by reciting a certain command. I do not know the word sequence.”

“I have to get it off,” Merlin says thickly, feeling tears prick the back of his eyes again. “Gaius, he- he knows I’m Emrys. He’s going to make me fight for him; he wants to use my magic.”

“It is as I feared,” Gaius says, looking graver than Merlin has ever seen him.

“I don’t know what to do,” Merlin says, hysteria creeping into his voice.

“Hush,” Gaius says, reaching out to grasp Merlin’s hands in his own. “We will find a way.” 

They sit in silence for a minute, then Merlin remembers.

“Have you seen Arthur?” he says desperately. “Is he okay? Has Uther put him under guard too?”

Gaius looks away.

“No, he is not under guard,” he says, and his tone tells Merlin everything he needs to know.

“He hates me,” he says brokenly.

“No, no my boy, he’s just confused. Uther has been filling his head with nonsense, but Arthur will remember himself in time.”

Gaius doesn’t sound at all convinced and Merlin suddenly doesn’t want to cry anymore. He feels like all his tears have been used up, and there’s nothing left but a cold, heavy weight in the pit of his stomach.

“We can’t rely on him,” he says dully. “It’s just the two of us.”

Gaius looks like he wants to argue for a moment, then his shoulders sag.

“I will get you out of here,” he promises. “I just need time.”

Merlin doesn’t say that time is something he doesn’t have. Gaius might get him out before he’s forced to go to war with Cenred, but he won’t get him out before he’s forced to… to do things that will ruin him forever. 

“Forget about me,” he says quietly. “Uther’s sent knights to get my mother. Gaius, find a way to help her first. If you can get word to her, or if you can help if she’s brought here…”

Gaius pales significantly at the news that Hunith is in danger but he maintains a brave face.

“Of course. I can try to send word via magical means; I have a spell somewhere. But I will not forget about you, Merlin.”

Merlin feels a great wave of hopelessness wash over him. Gaius must see, because he shakes him gently by the shoulder.

“Don’t give up,” Gaius says urgently. “There is always a way.”

There are footsteps outside the door and both of them freeze. But then they recede.

“I must go,” Gaius says regretfully.

“How did you get out at all?”

“Thomas is on guard duty, and I nursed his little girl through a fever last winter. I cannot ask it of him again, however.”

Merlin is glad, in an odd way. If Gaius is confined to his chambers, he cannot witness Merlin being degraded in front of the whole court as a slave. He couldn’t bear his guardian to see him like that.

Gaius tugs him into one last embrace, before getting to his feet. Merlin gets up with him, and Gaius squeezes his shoulders.

“Keep hope alive,” he says, and then he’s gone.

 

_______________________________________________________________________________

 

Merlin cleans Uther’s chambers as best he can, stumbling around even as the ache in his head makes him dizzy and disorientated. It’s not all due to his head however; he knows the loss of his magic is having a serious effect on his equilibrium. He feels like he’s been knocked off balance, everything’s slightly askew. His very being is incomplete without it.

When Uther strides back into the room, he can only hope that his efforts are good enough to not attract the King’s displeasure. He hates the man but he’s scared, too.

Uther surveys the room and sneers slightly. 

“I’d ask if this is the best you can do but I believe I already know the answer to that. I can see breaking you in will be no easy task.”

Merlin bites back the retort that rises to his lips. 

“We will attend to your shortcomings later, for now it’s time to dress for the feast.”

Uther’s lips curl up at the sides; a wolf grin.

“Strip,” he says.

Merlin swallows hard, torn between compliance and a useless display of resistance. Despite knowing the futility, his heart yearns for him to resist, to put up some kind of fight. But then he thinks of his mother and the collar and of how he needs to bide his time if he’s ever going to escape. 

Decision made, Merlin obeys; hands shaking as he removes his tunic. His fingers falter on his breeches, but he summons up all the courage he can muster and lets them fall to the floor. He stands there in his under-things, shivering.

“Those, too,” the King says, clearly enjoying his discomfort. 

Merlin draws a deep, fortifying breath before removing the last of his clothing, quickly covering his crotch with his hands in a desperate attempt to retain a scrap of dignity.

The King’s eyes flicker over him, and he feels hot shame spreading through his body, and casts his eyes to the ground. He believed Uther when the man said he had no lust for him, but the King’s probing gaze makes him feel stripped of more than his garments. Being forced to undress like this is a clear reminder of his new lack of personhood, his loss of control over his own life.

“The fire,” Uther says.

Merlin’s gaze snaps up, confused.

“Put your clothes. Into the fire,” Uther enunciates, like he’s speaking to an idiot.

Merlin gathers his clothes together, and holds them in front of himself as he walks towards the fire; before dropping them into the crackling blaze. He has to blink back tears as another part of his identity is destroyed; it feels like every minute brings him further away from the man he was yesterday.

When he turns, Uther has settled himself in a chair and is pouring a goblet of wine. 

“Wash yourself,” he directs, indicating a bucket of water in the corner. “You’re filthy.”

It’s true, Merlin can feel the grime from the dungeons on his skin, the stickiness of the dried blood on his head; but he’s loath to wash in front of this man.

And yet, as in all else right now, he has no choice. He continues to try and shield himself as he walks to the bucket, before turning his back on the King.

Uther barks out a laugh.

“You can’t hide anything from me now, boy. Your private life is over.”

Merlin tries to ignore him, reaching in to retrieve the ragged cloth from the bucket. The water is freezing, as he expected, and he attempts to cleanse himself as quickly as possible; aware of the King’s eyes upon him.

By the time he’s finished, his shivering has intensified, though he knows better than to ask for a drying cloth.

“Turn around,” the King commands.

He pivots, still covering himself as best he can.

“Hands by your sides,” the King says lazily, and Merlin tastes acid in his mouth. He does as he’s instructed, feeling a flush of mortification heat his face as the King’s eyes drag over him.

“I’m tempted just to leave you like that,” Uther says casually, sipping his wine. “Let the whole castle see your shame.”

Merlin bites down hard on his lip, panic rising in him.

Uther draws out the silence, taking the time to enjoy Merlin’s fear before he deigns to speak again.

“Still, it wouldn’t do for you to catch a chill and die before you’ve served any purpose. Perhaps in summer, when the weather is warmer…”

He gestures dismissively towards the bed and Merlin hurries over to the clothing he can see there. He gratefully pulls on the undergarment, followed by a pair of thin and tattered breeches. He looks around the bed but there doesn’t seem to be any more.

“Where’s the tunic?” he asks, remembering to add a ‘sire’ on the end just in time.

“You have all you need,” comes the cool reply. “I do not believe in wasting fabric on undeserving slaves.”

Merlin’s mouth sets in a grim line. So he’s to be paraded half-naked in front of the court. Not for the first time, he wonders if he can bear this.

Uther rises to his feet. 

“One final addition,” he says, walking over to his bedside and fishing something out of a drawer. When he turns, Merlin sees a narrow length of chain with a loop of leather on one end, and his heart sinks.

“What’s a dog without his chain?” Uther says maliciously. He turns Merlin round and attaches the chain to the ring hook on the back of his collar, before stepping back and giving it a sharp tug. 

Merlin jerks towards the King, stumbling slightly.

Uther nods in approval and pulls Merlin across the room, then hooks the leather loop onto a nail on the wall.

“On your knees,” he says and Merlin drops to the floor. 

“Hands behind your back,” Uther says. “Straighten your spine.”

Merlin complies.

“This is how I want you when you are not serving me. If I leave you alone, I expect to come back to find you like this, or you will suffer the consequences.”

Threat dispatched, Uther turns his back on Merlin and proceeds to prepare for the feast. His manservant, a man by the name of Richard, enters to help him dress and Merlin catches the quick, nervous glance the man gives him. Richard’s gaze does not linger, but Merlin feels horribly exposed anyway.

 _For my mother,_ he thinks. _For the sake of her, I can endure this._

When it’s time to go, Uther yanks him to his feet by the chain and leads him down the corridor. Merlin keeps his head down, not wanting to meet the gaze of any passing servants or nobles. He sees only legs and feet passing by, wonders if he’s imagining the gasps and whispers that sound in his wake. Every now and then Uther gives the chain a vicious tug, causing Merlin to nearly trip over.

He bears the indignity as best he can, until they reach the doors to the great hall and Uther stops suddenly, turning to him. 

“I don’t think you’ve earned the right to walk like a man, sorcerer,” he says. “So, crawl.”

Merlin’s stomach sinks. For a second he imagines blasting Uther away with his magic, turning him into a frog, a beetle, crushing him beneath his foot… But he doesn’t have his magic. So he lowers himself to his hands and knees.

Merlin knows he hasn’t imagined the gasp that greets the sight of Uther Pendragon leading his son’s manservant into the room on a chain like a dog, collared and half-naked. As before he keeps his eyes firmly affixed downwards, refusing to look at anyone as he shuffles forwards. The journey to the head of the table seems to take forever, Merlin feels acutely aware of every eye upon him, even if he will not meet their gazes. 

Finally Uther settles himself in his chair, before giving the chain a sharp yank.

“Take up your position,” he orders and Merlin raises himself onto his knees, hands behind his back. He keeps his eyes on the ground.

Satisfied, the King turns to address the assembly. 

“You are all here to witness my victory over the sorcerer known as Emrys. Prophesised to bring about devastation through his wicked power, he took the guise of my son’s blundering manservant in order to sow the seeds of destruction in the very heart of Camelot. But as ever, our enemies underestimate our strength and his plot is foiled.”

Merlin nearly lifts his head when he hears that, to protest at the lies Uther is disseminating. But who would believe him? Who would even listen to him speak at this point?

“You may be wondering why he has not been put to the pyre for his crimes. The answer to that is: this is no ordinary sorcerer. His power is great, greater I believe than any of the sorcerers King Cenred has in his employ. For the good of our kingdom, I intend to harness his magic to our advantage.”

There’s definitely an outbreak of muttering at that and Merlin feels a small tendril of hope that maybe someone will object to this blatant betrayal of Camelot’s anti-magic stance.

“I know that many of you may have qualms about this course of action, but I believe it is the only way to protect ourselves from our foes. Rest assured that this collar guarantees the boy cannot use his magic against us in any way. I am in full control of his power.” 

“But Sire,” a quavery voice ventures, one that Merlin recognises as belonging to one of the older Lords. “Will you not have to remove the collar to use his powers in battle? Will he not turn on us then?”

“He has been made aware of the consequences of disobedience, and has thus submitted to me,” Uther says.

“But surely-”

“Look at him, Sir Cardon.”

Uther’s voice is relaxed, persuasive. Merlin hates it. He wants Uther to sound enraged, paranoid, irrational. He wants them to doubt the King’s state of mind, but this Uther has all the cogency and smoothness of the strong leader he claims to be. 

“Does he not look subdued? Does he not look controlled?”

Merlin feels the eyes of the hall upon him and he can’t help but blush, shamed by what they must see in him.

“You have nothing to fear from him,” Uther says calmly. “He’s merely a slave now.”

Merlin flinches. It’s not the first time he’s heard that word today, to be said so casually, in front of all these people…

Uther carries on speaking but Merlin tunes him out, he can’t stand to listen anymore. He’s trembling slightly, his heart skittering in his chest. The fear and humiliation of being displayed like this is too much for him, he feels like he can’t get enough air into his lungs. He tries to think about the techniques Gaius uses to calm patients down, and starts taking deep breaths in and out. It’s maybe five minutes before he feels like he can breathe properly again, and by then the servants are already serving the first of the wine and mead.

He still hasn’t looked up, yet in that strange way that he can always sense where Arthur is, he becomes aware that the Prince has sat down at Uther’s side.

He has to look. He can’t not. Raising his head a tiny fraction, he cuts his eyes towards Arthur.

The Prince is looking directly at him, eyes filled with rage and hatred. 

It’s like a physical blow. Merlin turns his gaze back down instantly, pain flooding through him. He never thought Arthur could look at him like that. What about two sides of the same coin? What about destiny? 

Forget destiny. What about their friendship? Did it mean so little to Arthur? Is he really willing to stand here and let his father do this to Merlin?

Had he ever meant anything to the Prince at all?

Merlin wants to cry but he can’t, not here, so he settles for driving his nails into the palms of his hands, as hard as he can. 

Arthur hates him.

Destiny is broken.

He spends the rest of the feast in a haze of despair, blocking out the talk above his head. He just wants not to think for a while, not to feel the terror and shame and anger. He’s so tired…

It’s not until the final course has been cleared away that he comes back to himself, when he suddenly becomes aware of a most unwelcome sensation. Someone is stroking the top of his head, as they would a dog.

He lets his eyes flicker up and sees Sir Aldor, one of the longer serving knights in Uther’s employ. Aldor occasionally prevails upon Merlin to help polish his armour or carry his weaponry to the training field, despite the fact he has a perfectly good squire of his own to assist him. Merlin knows exactly why, he can sometimes feel the man’s eyes crawl across his body as he goes about his tasks. The knight has even hinted once or twice around the subject of Merlin ‘privately attending’ him in his rooms, but Merlin has always had the protection of Arthur to hide behind as he politely refuses.

That protection is gone now.

“May I examine him?” Aldor says cordially to Uther, as if he’s requesting use of the King’s quill.

“By all means.” 

He feels Aldor’s hand grasp his chin, forcing him to look up.

“Who could have suspected?” Aldor muses. “Such a sweet face for so heinous a traitor.”

His tone sends a shiver down Merlin’s spine.

“His betrayal has cut us all deep,” Uther agrees.

“I once considered myself something of a mentor to the boy, though I understand better now why he rejected the instruction I offered."

Merlin has to stifle a laugh at that, even in his misery. The kind of ‘instruction’ Aldor had wanted to offer him was certainly not of a mentoring sort.

The humour fades quickly as Aldor grabs a handful of his hair and twists his head back painfully.

“I’d like to teach him a lesson of a different kind now,” he says darkly and Merlin cringes away from the obvious lust in the man’s eyes.

“Why don’t you?” Uther says carelessly. “I have no need of his services tonight if you wish to take him to your chambers and… give him instruction.”

A cold sweat breaks out over Merlin’s skin, and his vision blurs for a few seconds. He thought he might have more time, a chance to get away before someone tried to…

“I’d be delighted,” Aldor says, and he releases his grip on Merlin’s hair to flit his fingers across Merlin’s closed lips, pressing on them with the pad of his thumb.

Merlin’s extremities go numb. This can’t happen, please don’t let this happen, please someone stop this, _please…_

“Forgive me,” Arthur’s voice rings out. “I do not wish to deprive you of the… pleasure… Sir Aldor, but I had rather hoped I might be the first to ensure that the slave understands his new place in Camelot.”

Merlin freezes.

“That’s as it may be,” Aldor splutters, clearly unwilling to give up on his promised prize. “But I-”

“Was he not my manservant, Father?” Arthur asks coolly. “Was I not the most lied to, the most deceived by his perfidy? Is it not fitting that I be the first to repay that deception tenfold?” 

In the silence that follows, Merlin swears he can hear his own heartbeat.

“My son makes a good argument,” Uther says briskly. “The slave will go with him tonight, and tomorrow shall be your turn Sir Aldor.”

“Your majesty, I-”

“My decision is final,” the King says with a hint of steel, and Aldor falls silent.

“My thanks, sire,” Arthur says. “With your permission, I will retire.”

“Very well. Bring him to my chambers in the morning,” Uther says, and holds out the end of the chain.

Arthur takes it, and turns to Merlin.

“Get up,” he says, no trace of warmth in his voice.

Merlin stands on shaky legs. Arthur barely waits for him to be upright before he walks forward, sharply jerking the chain behind him.

Although he promised himself he wouldn’t, Merlin takes one quick look at the hall around him as he’s dragged away.

Many of the people he sees are grinning, some making bawdy gestures and nudging one another. But some look highly uncomfortable, and one or two even distressed. His gaze falls upon Sir Leon for a second and the knight looks positively stricken, his eyes full of pity. He tries to take comfort from that, that at least one person isn’t glorying in his subjugation.

It’s cold comfort indeed as Arthur pulls him along the corridors. Merlin’s almost blind with panic, there are spots dancing in front of his eyes. 

If Arthur so much as touches him in that way, he’ll…

He’ll throw himself off the battlements. Destiny be damned. He will not stay bound to a man who… who… 

Merlin wants to weep, wants to scream, but there’s also the tiniest, quietest part of him that wants to hope. What if Arthur only said those things to get him away from Uther? What if Arthur wants to help him after all?

It’s this tiny part of him that loosens his tongue as they finally reach the Prince’s chamber and the guard opens the door to let them in.

“Arthur...” he says simply.

Then he’s on the ground and he doesn’t understand why for a second until he registers the burning pain in his cheek and realises that Arthur has just hit him. His Prince, his destiny, the other side of his coin, has just hit him across the face.

“Don’t you dare use my name, sorcerer,” Arthur hisses, hatred bright in his eyes, and the last flame of hope in Merlin’s chest finally flickers out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this update took so long! I got floored by writer's block and just couldn't produce anything. I can't say this new chapter's perfect but I'm slowly getting back into the rhythm of writing so thank you for your patience.
> 
> I hope I won't leave it as long again but if you're the kind of person who hates waiting on slow WIPs (understandable) then maybe just bookmark it and come back when it's finished? Otherwise, read on!

For a few seconds Merlin doesn’t move at all, just lies still on the floor of Arthur’s chambers. He feels the pain radiating from his cheek, where Arthur’s hand had struck him with sudden and brutal force. He hears the word “sorcerer” echoing in his head, spat at him with so much contempt that it feels branded into his skin. He thinks about Uther and Ambrose and Aldor, and everything that he’s endured so far, and the fact that it all pales in comparison to Arthur’s hatred. 

He comes back to himself when he hears the guard shut the door as he leaves, and Arthur instantly moves towards him.

He tries to scramble to his feet but his legs don’t want to work, fear is making him clumsy and slow. Panic floods him as he looks up to see Arthur advancing on him, arm outstretched. He gives up trying to stand in favour of propelling himself backwards with his hands, trying to get as far away from the Prince as possible until his back hits the wall and there’s nowhere to go. 

Arthur looks terrifyingly huge as he crosses the room. Merlin’s never had to look at him that way before; never had to size him up as a threat. All those hours spent training on the fields, all those countless fights and jousts, all the times Merlin took pride in what a formidable opponent Arthur was becoming and never once imagined that brute force might be turned on him. He’s no match physically for the Prince, he never was. Magic was what he brought to the table, and he dreamed of a destiny where his powers and Arthur’s strength could one day combine to ensure the prosperity and wellbeing of Camelot. It’s an unbearably cruel irony that the strength he set such store by would now be used to overpower him.

“Get away from me,” he manages to choke out, hysteria taking hold of him. “Get away from me, don’t touch me!”

He raises his hands uselessly to shield himself, his whole body trembling violently. He feels wild, like he might shake apart or explode, heart pounding in terror as Arthur finally reaches him.

“Don’t touch me!” he tries to shout again, but it comes out more like a sob, and he squeezes his eyes shut because he suddenly can’t bear to watch what’s about to happen when he has no way of stopping it. 

Then there are hands on his arms, pulling them down to his sides, and he twists desperately, eyes still shut, not wanting to look upon the cold gaze of his former friend.

“Merlin-”

“Please,” he hears himself whimper. “Please don’t...”

Then a hand is reaching out to touch his face, a parody of tenderness, and he nearly convulses in horror.

“No!”

He remembers Aldor stroking his hair, Arthur stepping in to stake his claim; does Arthur hate him enough to violate him in that way? 

He’s horribly aware that he’s half naked; exposed to the Prince like never before.

He begins to struggle as hard as he can, trying to kick out with his legs, dislodge the grip on his arms. He won’t make this easy for Arthur, he’ll fight him every step of the way…

“Merlin, just…”

It’s no good, Arthur is too strong, he always was. All Merlin’s doing is exhausting himself and he feels tears leak out of his still closed eyes as he realises how helpless he is to prevent the Prince from just taking what he wants.

He doesn’t stop fighting though, even as his chest burns and his muscles weaken. He kicks out again and Arthur has to shift to keep a hold of him. He almost manages to displace his grip until the Prince forces him onto his back on the floor and straddles him, pinioning his hands to the ground.

“Get off me! Get off me!” he all but screams but he’s well and truly pinned now and he can’t move a muscle to defend himself.

It’s over. Arthur’s won.

The fight goes out of him, adrenaline draining away as quickly as it came.

He’s got nothing left.

He slumps, letting his body go limp. For a moment or two silence reigns, the only sound being his thrumming heartbeat, his quick shallow breaths.

“Merlin,” Arthur says above him, his voice low and steady. “Listen to me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

_Lies._

It’s a trick, it’s a trap, Merlin won’t open his eyes to see the Prince’s face twist into its true malice. Arthur’s playing with him, like a boy tearing the wings off a fly. He’s seen the contempt in Arthur’s eyes, the unambiguous loathing. He won’t be taken in…

“Open your eyes, Merlin,” Arthur says.

Merlin shakes his head.

“Look at me. You know me, Merlin. I will not hurt you.”

Arthur’s voice is so soft, so calm. The hands holding his wrists are not pressing down harshly, their grip is light. 

It’s not true; he knows it’s not true. Arthur already has hurt him.

But he wants so badly to believe him… 

He feels a few more tears trickle down his face, and suddenly the pressure on his left wrist is gone and a hand is thumbing at the wetness on his cheeks.

Merlin wants to lean into the touch, the first gentle one since Gaius held him all those hours ago.

_It’s a trick…_

“Look at me,” Arthur is saying again, gentle, insistent. “You know me.”

Merlin opens his eyes.

The face above him slowly comes into focus.

Arthur looks a thousand things at once; relieved and anxious and sad and hurt – but he doesn’t look angry. Or contemptuous. Or full of hate.

“That’s it,” Arthur says encouragingly, as though speaking to a child. “You can trust me.”

He releases Merlin’s other hand and holds his own up in a supplicatory gesture.

“I’m sorry I had to restrain you. I’m going to get up now.”

As soon as the weight lifts from his body, Merlin scoots back to sit against the wall, hugging his knees to his chest. He watches Arthur with wary eyes, still unwilling to believe he’s not in danger. 

Arthur doesn’t make a move to come any closer. His arms are still held out in front of him. It reminds Merlin of when the stable boys attempt to calm a spooked horse.

He’s not calm. His breath is still coming erratically; his body is still trembling with fear. He is not safe or free. The chain that still hangs from his collar reminds him of that, cold where it lies against the heated skin of his bare chest.

He must have glanced at it unconsciously because Arthur’s gaze follows to it and he moves forward.

Merlin flinches back as far as he can.

Arthur stops in his tracks.

“I’m just going to remove the chain, nothing else. Is that alright?”

Merlin doesn’t answer, waiting to see if Arthur will go ahead anyway without permission. He’s been rechristened a slave after all, whoever heard of respecting a slave’s wishes?

Arthur doesn’t move.

There’s a long, painful pause and then Merlin nods.

Arthur walks forward slowly, still making the same careful motions that remind Merlin of the movements even the hardiest men make around scared horses.

He feels no better than a frightened animal at this point.

Arthur finally crouches down in front of him and reaches around his neck to delicately unhook the chain. Merlin’s pulse is skittering but Arthur moves back to a safe distance the second he’s finished. He regards Merlin for a second and then walks to his dresser and returns with a tunic in hand. 

“Put this on.”

It’s Arthur’s favourite, Merlin recognises it as soon as it’s handed over. Red, soft, supple. Older than most of the others, mended a couple of times, patched up with love. When he pulls it over his head, it smells like Arthur and it makes his ache. 

He feels a tiny bit better when he’s not half-naked anymore; more like a human being. It finally gives him the courage to speak.

“Why did you say you wouldn’t hurt me?” Merlin’s throat is dry but he forces the words out anyway. 

“Because I won’t,” Arthur says simply.

“But you said I couldn’t use your name, and you… you h-hit me.”

Arthur’s eyes drop to Merlin’s cheek and his jaw tightens.

“I’m sorry I did that. And said that. The guards are reporting back to my father, I had to make it seem like I was punishing you.”

“But you’re… you’re not going to-”

“No,” Arthur says, walking over to the table and pouring some water into a cup. Merlin expects him to drink it but he brings it back over and puts it near Merlin’s feet, making sure not to come too close.

“Here.”

Merlin eyes the cup warily for a moment but his mouth is so dry and he knows Arthur doesn’t need to resort to tactics like poison when he could cause Merlin enough pain with his own two fists.

_And yet… it doesn’t seem like he wants to cause me pain…_

Merlin reaches out to grab the cup and begins to gulp thirstily. Arthur takes the opportunity to speak.

“I only said those things to my father so I could take you with me and away from Sir Aldor.”

Merlin gives an involuntary shudder at the mention of Aldor’s name and Arthur’s lips purse before he continues. 

“I have no intention of punishing you.”

Merlin hears the words but he can’t quite believe them.

Without warning Arthur drops to his knees a little way from Merlin, making it so their eyes are on a level. He waits until Merlin feels calm enough to hold his gaze.

“Let me be very clear.” 

Arthur’s tone is steady but urgent.

“I do not agree with what my father has done. There is no justification for his decision to enslave you. Nor his attempts to threaten, torment, or humiliate you. It is not fitting with the honour of the crown, nor with the justice system of Camelot. I can find no reason or nobility in his actions and as such I must find myself in opposition to them. Even if a person has...” 

And here Arthur twitches slightly, the first crack in his composure since his speech had begun.

“Has… magic. The laws of decency and proportional sentencing must still be upheld.”

Quashing down the hope rising in his heart, Merlin tries to search Arthur’s face for any trace of deception. It might still be a trap, but… 

He knows this man, and he can hear the honesty in his words. For the first time since Arthur made his promise, Merlin starts to believe it might be true that the Prince had no plans to cause him harm.

The thought is a shaft of light in a dark room. Might Arthur not despise him after all?

“In the hall,” Merlin croaks out, and takes another sip of water to fortify himself. “I saw you looking at me. It was… you were so angry, like you hated me.”

“I was angry,” Arthur says. “But not at you. At my father for his… his tyranny, and at the court for being too cowed to oppose his latest descent into madness.”

He looks at Merlin intently.

“I had to make it seem as though I agreed with him, that I condemned you wholeheartedly. He’d have locked me up otherwise, and any chance of helping you would have been lost.”

“You want to help me?” Merlin whispers, overwhelmed.

“Of course,” Arthur says, and for the first time he moves in on Merlin’s space to lightly grip his hand for a second.

Merlin lets out a long, shaky exhale. Arthur doesn’t hate him, doesn’t want to beat him or torture him, he’s going to help him get out of this nightmare…

Then a thought strikes him.

“Arthur, I never… I wasn’t trying to kill Lord Fairfax, I swear. There was a stone come loose from the ceiling, it was going to crush him, I only wanted to stop it from-”

“I know,” Arthur says, stunning Merlin into silence.

“I admit that when it all happened my first thought was… It seemed like you had tried to...” Arthur takes a breath. “I didn’t know what to think but the scene was… incriminating. But after I had retired to my chambers, Lord Fairfax’s daughter Elizabeth came to knock on my door. She was in a terrible state and I thought she was simply afraid. But she insisted that she had seen the stone come unstuck from the masonry, that she was on the verge of crying out when you stepped forward. She swore blind that you had only stopped the rock in its trajectory, not conjured it to fall.”

He gives Merlin a rueful look. 

“I was not easily persuaded. But even in my own thoughts of anger and betrayal, I could see that it made little sense. Why would you hide at the heart of Camelot for over a year and then finally reveal yourself in an attempt to assassinate a minor Lord who gave insult to none in his life? There was nothing to gain from killing Lord Fairfax. And if he had been your unlikely target, why bide your time in Camelot all these months?”

“Your father thinks I’ve been plotting your downfall,” Merlin mumbles.

“Incredibly ineffectively, I must say, considering the number of times you’ve saved my life so far,” Arthur says dryly. 

“I never plotted anything,” Merlin says hoarsely. “Never wanted to do anything but serve you sire, I promise…”

“I believe you. You may thank the rationality of the young Elizabeth for that. Though do not take me for a man without his own rational sense, Merlin. Even I can see that my father’s delusions of you as an all-powerful sorcerer bear little resemblance to the actions you have undertaken so far in my service.”

The wry smile that had crossed Arthur’s face fades.

“Though I must confess I cannot understand for the life of me why you chose to study magic in the first place,” he says heavily.

_Oh. So it all had to come out now._

Merlin had imagined this conversation so many times and now that it’s here, he doesn’t know where to begin. He’d always hoped he’d be telling the truth of his own free will, that he and Arthur would have reached a point in their destiny where his revelation might be accepted with ease; even welcomed.

But this is what he has and he has to make the best of it so he steels himself and meets Arthur’s eyes.

“I didn’t study magic. I’ve had it since the day I was born.”

Arthur’s face twists in confusion.

“That’s not possible,” he says slowly.

“It’s rare,” Merlin agrees. “But not impossible. I’ve always had it. For me, it’s… natural.”

Arthur looks like he can’t quite countenance the idea of magic being natural.

“So you didn’t learn…”

“No. I mean, if I wanted to do something specific,” Merlin is carefully avoiding any words that he thinks might discomfort Arthur, like spells or potions, “I might need to look it up. If it wasn’t… instinctive.”

“Your magic is instinctive?” Arthur says in disbelief and Merlin gives him a sad little smile. 

“As instinctive as you feel with a sword in your hand.”

Arthur is silent for a long while and Merlin is hit with a sudden appreciation of what the Prince has gone through in the last day. The foundation stone of his entire world – that Uther was just and Camelot was righteous – had crumbled beneath him, and he’d had to make a snap decision about where his loyalties lay. Merlin imagines Arthur pacing his room last night, weighing up what he’d seen, what Elizabeth had said; trying to understand how his manservant could have had magic all this time. And when the morning came, he had thrown in his lot with Merlin, against his own father and everything he’d ever been taught.

Merlin feels a rush of gratitude. It hadn’t been easy for Arthur to do what he did, and yet here he was. And now he was trying to understand something he’d been told was evil his whole life. Perhaps destiny had a chance after all.

He waits patiently until Arthur finally speaks again.

“Alright. So you’ve always had magic. But couldn’t you have tried to… suppress it? Never use it? Knowing how it would corrupt you?”

“I’m not corrupted, Arthur,” Merlin says simply. “Magic isn’t good or evil, morality is in the hands of its wielder. Just like you with your sword and a man like Cenred with his.”

“Cenred has an army of sorcerers ready to maim and kill at his command,” Arthur reminds him. “Tell me they’re not corrupted.”

“Again, it’s a tool. It can be a weapon, of course it can, but it can also be used to help. To heal. There’s… there’s a lot I could tell you about it.”

Arthur looks like he isn’t entirely convinced of magic’s morality but he nods a little.

“I think I am ready to hear it.” He favours Merlin with a small, ironic smile. “You can start with what fool-headed notion compelled you to bring your magic to Camelot rather than staying where it wouldn’t get you put to the stake.”

Merlin smiles again, slightly less sad. Then he opens his mouth and tells his story.

He starts with his mother. And Ealdor and Will and the bits of magic that kept slipping out. His journey to Camelot. He skirts around Gaius and Kilgarrah but he speaks of Excalibur. And the Griffin and the poison and the orb of light. And Edwin and Sophia and the Black Knight. And finally of Nimueh and the Isle of the Blessed and the sacrifice he made.

Arthur listens intently the whole time. There are points when he looks angry, or appreciative, or sad, but he doesn’t interrupt. When Merlin finally comes to the end of his tale Arthur speaks. He berates Merlin for putting his life on the line so many times. And in the same breath he thanks him for doing so. Then he talks of his long held beliefs about magic, about Uther and his mother and his own fears. And about honour and justice and the things he knows to be right. 

It takes a long time. The candles are almost burned out by the time Arthur asks his final question.

“But who is this Emrys my father keeps speaking of? Prophesised, he said.”

Merlin hesitates.

“It is me. In a way… Emrys is the name the druids have for me.”

“Why would the druids have a name for you?” Merlin tries not be insulted by the incredulous tone in Arthur’s voice.

“It’s complicated. But it seems that my coming here to Camelot might have been… prophesised.”

“There are prophecies about you?” Arthur says in such a doubtful voice that Merlin does shoot him a glare this time.

“Not just about me. About… us.” 

“Us?”

“Look, none of this is an exact science, as you well know,” Merlin hedges, unsure of how best to explain. “But apparently it’s been foretold that we will work together for the good of Camelot. Towards the union of Albion and… the acceptance of magic.”

“You and me?”

“The warlock,” Merlin says, pointing to himself. “And the Once and Future King.”

He points to Arthur, who looks a mixture of sceptical and impressed. 

“The Once and Future King, what’s that?”

“It’s what you’ll become. The greatest ruler Camelot has ever known.”

Arthur does look genuinely awed now. 

“How?”

Merlin shrugs.

“The prophecy seems to think we’ll work it out between us.”

He can’t help but grin slightly at the thought and Arthur grins back, as though all was well in the world. Which of course it isn’t, and reality hits him hard.

“If we ever get the chance to try,” he says wearily.

“Merlin, I was decided on my course of action before we even entered this room, and tonight’s conversation has only clarified my path. I’m going to get you out of Camelot.”

Arthur’s voice is very firm, sounding every inch the leader he is rapidly becoming. But Merlin can’t allow himself to hope just yet.

“How?” 

“I’m still in the planning stages but I’ve set a few things in motion. I made a list of knights and nobles that might be persuaded to our cause. One of the few I deemed trustworthy enough to approach so far is Sir Leon.”

“What did he say?”

Merlin’s always liked Sir Leon, for his loyalty to Arthur as much as anything else. But he knows him to be a rule abiding man who could not easily countenance taking action against the crown.

“We talked at great length. He is… he does not wish to openly defy his King. But equally, he is most upset about what has been done to you. He believes, as I do, that a great injustice is being perpetrated. For that reason alone, he has agreed to help in whatever way he can.”

Arthur seems to be looking for some sign of assent from Merlin, so he nods.

“I’d be glad of his help.”

“There are others that might assist us but I would like to test the waters with them before I act definitively. One false move could alert my father to our plans. But regarding Sir Kay and Sir Gareth, I have-”

“Arthur,” Merlin interrupts. “If we got this collar off, I could use magic to escape without needing the help of anyone at all.”

“That is obviously our priority. But I confess to having no solid ideas on how to do so at present. That is why I want to enlist as many men as I can to aid us in the event we cannot. Unfortunately…” Arthur pauses to look Merlin in the eye, “both of these objectives will take a bit of time. I am loath to leave you in this state for longer than-”

“I understand,” Merlin cuts in again. “But rather than involving others and risking their safety, could I not just slip away tonight? Even without my magic I’m sure I could get a horse loose and if I made it to the forest…”

Arthur is frowning, shaking his head.

“You can’t escape with the collar still on, for obvious reasons.”

“But none here know how to remove it. Beyond the city I could at least look for the Druids and-”

“Merlin. Did the King not tell you?” Arthur looks highly perturbed.

“Tell me what?”

“As long as you’re wearing that collar, my father need only recite a certain command and you’ll be compelled to return to him, wherever you are.” 

Merlin feels his heart skip a beat. His fingers fly to his neck automatically.

“You’re not serious?”

“I’m sorry. I thought he would have taunted you with that knowledge already.”

Merlin feels leaden. He had hoped if there was some stray moment when he went unwatched, he could make a bid for freedom… but there was no freedom, apparently, not for him. 

Arthur must see his spirits sink because he reaches out to grip his shoulder.

“We’ll get it off you.”

“How?” Merlin says, not trying to conceal the gloom in his tone. “Gaius said it opened on a command sequence but Uther must be the only one who knows it.”

“You saw Gaius? He is well?”

Merlin nods.

“Good. I’ve been banned from his chambers for the time being. But you can rest assured he’ll be researching it right now, as far as he can.”

Merlin looks down. He can’t share Arthur’s optimism. The odds seem stacked against him.

“Merlin, don’t despair just yet. We have more people on our side at court than you think.”

“I saw their faces in the great hall,” Merlin says dully. “They hate me. They want me to suffer.” 

“Not all of them. And you’re forgetting that we have unlikely allies in the anti-magic factions, though they do not intend it. Remember that much of the court have been witness to Uther’s total condemnation of magic for many years. For him to turn around now and speak of wielding collared sorcerers is a bitter tonic for many of them to swallow. They are not united behind him. And any source of division in the court is good for us.”

Even in the midst of his despondency, Merlin can’t help but be impressed by the strategic thinking Arthur is displaying. He forgets sometimes that Arthur knows how to do more than just swing a sword. It’s times like these when he reveals the makings of the King he will become.

Merlin tries to cling on to that thought. He has to bear up for the sake of their shared future. And of course to protect his mother…

Like a lightning bolt, Merlin is suddenly struck by what Arthur told the King and feels bitter gall rise in his throat.

“You set Uther on my mother!” he shouts and Arthur jumps in surprise.

“What?”

“He says you told him to send for her,” Merlin says angrily but he’s already calming even as he speaks. Uther was lying, of course he was…

“I did,” Arthur says and rage floods Merlin’s chest again.

“Why the _hell_ would you-”

“Merlin. I made the suggestion and he was pleased enough to grant me permission to personally select the two knights sent to retrieve her. I chose Sir Kay and Sir Gareth and I communicated their mission to them in very clear words. They were to travel to Ealdor and find a woman named Hunith. Then they were to take that woman to a nearby village in Essetir, to a house owned by a woman named Eleanor. They were to leave her there and then return to Camelot with the news that Hunith had passed away several days before they arrived in Ealdor of a sudden fever.”

Merlin’s rage subsides slightly.

“I don’t see why you even had to bring her into it-”

“My father may be cruel but he is not stupid. He knows where you came from; it was better that the suggestion came from me than that he acted independently to find her.”

Merlin can grudgingly concede that Arthur might be right, but he still can’t feel happy about it.

“But Kay and Gareth know she’s my mother, don’t they? They know I’m a sorcerer? What makes you think they won’t ignore you and bring her back anyway?”

“I trust them,” Arthur says firmly. “We discussed the events of your arrest and they agreed with me that something was awry. And they were not as difficult to persuade as you might think. Kay’s mother had magic. She died when Kay was seven, a year before the purge began, and I think it haunts him to wonder what might have happened had she lived. Gareth keeps his own counsel but he has travelled the breadth of Albion and seen more than my father ever has. I believe he has more liberal views than most suspect.”

Arthur looks directly at Merlin.

“They are faithful to me. They will keep your mother safe.” 

Merlin’s still afraid, he can’t not be when it comes to his mother, but the stone in the pit of his stomach shrinks slightly. He’d been so worried about what Uther might do when she arrived in Camelot. Arthur’s plan has to be better than the alternative.

“Who’s Eleanor?”

Arthur smiles unexpectedly.

“The closest thing to a mother I ever had. She was my nurse when I was a child; she lived in the castle until I was thirteen. And then Uther deemed me too old for nursemaids and ended her employment. She retired to her birthplace in Essetir and I have tried to see her two or three times a year ever since. She’s a good woman, and she’ll take care of your mother, I promise. When she hears I sent Hunith, she won’t ask any questions.”

“Then I owe her my thanks.”

“You can give it to her yourself. It’ll be your first stop when we get you out of Camelot.”

Merlin nods, then finds himself overtaken by a yawn. It’s been a long day and an even longer night, and he’s exhausted. Arthur looks much the same.

“We should go to bed,” the Prince says.

But Merlin cringes slightly at his choice of words. He suddenly realises, painful as it is, there’s one more thing they must talk about before they can sleep.

“Arthur the way you... when you spoke up for me against Sir Aldor,” he begins hesitantly.

“Yes?”

“You, er, you staked a claim. Your father will think we… he will expect that you…”

“Spit it out, Merlin.”

“He will expect you to have… used me.”

Merlin keeps his eyes fixed on the floor, unable to look at Arthur. He doesn’t want to say it, he doesn’t even want to think about it, but he’s afraid there will be consequences if they ignore it.

When he finally peeks up Arthur looks both furious and deeply pained.

“I don’t care what he _expects._ I have some honour left even if it seems to have deserted the rest of Camelot’s court.”

Arthur looks forbiddingly at Merlin, clearly deeming the matter closed, but Merlin persists.

“He might suspect your true sympathies if I return unscathed.”

“And how will he even know whether I did undertake to-”

Arthur stops, seemingly unable or unwilling to state explicitly the problem at hand.

“Arthur, he might… he might examine me.”

Merlin feels a hot wave of shame sweeping his body as he’s forced to acknowledge Uther’s power over him.

“He made me strip before. He wants to h-humiliate me. He would enjoy seeing the evidence of my… disgrace.”

Arthur twitches once at the word ‘strip’ and then again at the word ‘disgrace’. 

“We are not discussing this anymore,” he says abruptly.

“We must! You will come under suspicion if I return to him tomorrow and I haven’t-”

This time it’s Merlin who trails off and Arthur’s face twists into something ugly. 

“Been raped?”

Merlin flinches and Arthur’s eyes darken.

“You can’t even utter the word but that’s what we’re talking about here: me raping you in order to satisfy the whims of an increasingly deranged tyrant.”

“Arthur, don’t,” Merlin whispers, starting to shake.

“And there could be no gentleness about it, no concern for your wellbeing.” Arthur’s mouth is a hard bitter line. “He would expect to see bruises, blood, defilement of the most brutal kind.”

Arthur’s voice is getting louder and angrier. 

“What are you saying to me? That I have to violate you in order to save you? That you must sacrifice your innocence to me to preserve your life?”

Arthur’s nearly shouting now and Merlin’s both terrified that the guards will hear and also of the words themselves.

“Did I rescue you from Sir Aldor simply so I could take his wretched place and condemn my own soul to perdition?” 

“Arthur, stop,” Merlin pleads.

“Well, I will not! I refuse! I won’t do it!”

He sounds every inch the petulant noble but when Merlin studies his face he sees the Prince is close to tears, his rage giving way to something more desperate. 

His heart clenches and he reaches out a hand towards his friend. Arthur only looks at it, abject in his misery.

“I cannot do it, Merlin,” Arthur chokes out. “Please do not ask it of me. I cannot… hurt you in that way. It would bring ruin to both of us.” 

“Alright,” Merlin says, breathing heavily. “Alright. We’ll think of something.”

Arthur slides down the wall to sit against it and after a moment Merlin comes to sit beside him. He’s both relieved that Arthur refuses to do what Uther expects, and terrified that this could scupper his only chance at escape. He’s chilled by the knowledge that he would agree to be violated if it might secure his later freedom, and he’s glad that the decision has not been left to him. Arthur was right; it would bring about their ruin. Even with the knowledge that a lesser evil was being undertaken, Arthur would never forgive himself and Merlin fears it would drive a wedge between them and their shared destiny. 

But the problem at hand remains.

After a long silence, Arthur speaks.

“I will tell the King that I chose only to… use… your mouth.”

The sentence comes out with great difficulty and Merlin feels a flush creep up his cheeks. They should never have had to talk like this to one another, never. Another indignity to thank Uther for.

“Will he be satisfied with that?” Merlin says, keeping his eyes on the ground.

Arthur sighs.

“He will if I tell him that I preserved your virginity for Aldor, as a peace offering.”

His voice is thick with self-loathing.

“Very well,” Merlin says, trying to push down his own horror to reassure the Prince. But he can’t control the tremor that runs through him when Aldor’s name is mentioned, and Arthur seems to have noticed.

“I won’t let him violate you either.”

“I am promised to him tomorrow night,” Merlin says, anxiety poorly concealed.

“I know and I fear my father will not let me break the contract to claim you again. However, I can go directly to the source,” Arthur says darkly.

“How?”

“Aldor has a penchant for fine wine. If I gift him with a measure – perhaps as apology for taking his place tonight – you may be able to ensure he drinks a sufficient amount.”

“So we’re just hoping he gets really drunk?” Merlin says, a little confused.

“No, _Merlin_ ,” Arthur says with that familiar tone he uses to indicate he thinks his manservant’s being an idiot. For a moment it’s like everything’s back to normal and they’re trading quips and insults as they always do. “We’ll lace the wine with a sleeping draught from Gaius. An extremely strong one. He should be out before he has the chance to… well, to do anything untoward.”

Arthur finishes awkwardly, a painful reminder that things are far from back to normal between them.

“And if he doesn’t drink it?”

“I will station Leon near his rooms. If he suspects the plan’s gone awry, he can make his own excuses to barge into Aldor’s room and waylay him with some invented matter of court. Preferably plying him with wine at the same time.”

Arthur must see that Merlin’s body is still rigid with tension because he turns to face him.

“And if Leon is unsuccessful, he will summon me and I will burst in there with sword drawn and take you away. I would rather ensure your escape with patience and strategy, but I am perfectly willing to accelerate measures if my hand is forced.” 

He reaches out to squeeze Merlin’s shoulder.

“I will not let him touch you, I promise.”

Merlin nods.

He’s still scared, Arthur can’t take away all of his anguish in one night. But he’s in a better place than he ever thought he could be a few hours ago, and he would have to make do with that.

Arthur lends him some sleeping clothes, ten times softer than any he’s worn to bed before, and ushers him into the bed before he can even think about adjourning to the antechamber. It’s a gesture both sweet and upsetting – he could pretend it’s just Arthur’s concern for his comfort, but he knows it’s also for the benefit of any guards or servants who might enter unannounced. It has to look like Arthur really has bedded him.

He tries to clear his mind of such thoughts as he lies down and it seems to work because he’s asleep almost as soon as he closes his eyes.

 

___________________________________________________________________________

 

The smell of food is what wakes him, and he looks up to see Arthur walking back into the room with a tray in his hands; he must have intercepted it from the servant at the door.

Arthur sets it on the table and looks over to the bed.

“Oh good, you’re awake. Get up and eat this, we haven’t got long.”

Arthur insists he take the whole breakfast.

“I couldn’t attract suspicion by ordering any for you. I’ll get something for myself later.”

Merlin’s starving. He practically inhales the food, well aware that he doesn’t know when his next meal might be. Arthur has told the servant to bring a jug of hot water; when it arrives he tells Merlin to wash quickly. It’s a much more pleasant experience than the one he had in front of Uther, even if he is loath to take off the sleeping clothes and put on his tattered breeches again. 

It feels even more ridiculous to be bare-chested in the morning light, though at least the day is warm. But Merlin bears the indignity, at least until Arthur approaches with the chain.

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely when he sees the look on Merlin’s face. “I have to put it back on.”

Merlin knows he does, but it doesn’t make it any easier. In these chambers he’s been himself again for a few precious hours, and now he has to slip back into the guise of a slave. It rankles horribly. 

Arthur sighs.

“Well at least you look miserable enough for my father to believe I’ve spent the night abusing you.”

Merlin bares his teeth in a hideous parody of a grin.

“Much better,” Arthur says wryly, then reaches out to grasp his arm. “Stay strong. I’ll work as fast I can, it won’t be for much longer.” 

Merlin nods, feeling slightly choked up.

“Thank you,” he says. “For believing me.”

“Of course,” Arthur replies, like it was never in doubt, and Merlin tries to hold on to that certainty as he’s led out of the room by the chain.

The walk to Uther’s chambers feels long, Merlin doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to people’s eyes upon him in this way. When they enter the chamber, Uther is eating breakfast at his table. 

“Arthur,” he says in greeting. “I trust you spent a pleasant night.”

“I did,” Arthur says, walking over to hand the chain to the King, like he’s returning a hound after a hunt. Even though Merlin knew it was coming, it still stings. But he makes sure his face is blank as Uther gives it a sharp tug and Merlin takes up his kneeling position on the floor.

“You found him pleasing then?”

“His mouth amuses,” Arthur says in a bored tone. “I’ve left the rest of him for Sir Aldor’s enjoyment. Call it a peace offering for spoiling his fun last night.” 

He reaches for an apple from the bowl on the table. 

“Not to mention the fact I found myself rather repulsed by the notion of taking him as I would a woman.”

Uther looks gratified by this. Merlin suspects he’s only offering use of Merlin’s body to punish and degrade him, not for the pleasure of his court. There’s a silent judgement implicit for all those who take up the offer to debauch a sorcerer. 

“Very diplomatic. No doubt Aldor will be appreciative.”

Arthur shrugs, indifferent. It’s a clever performance; Merlin is almost taken in himself. It’s undeniably painful to hear Arthur talk about him in this way, but he steels himself to withstand it, knowing it’s all for the greater good.

“What are your plans for the day?”

“I thought Leon and I might take a short hunt.”

“Very well, see that you’re back for the evening meal. There is more to discuss concerning the slave and his training.”

Arthur inclines his head to indicate his agreement, and the talk turns to idle matters. The Prince seems to be the epitome of composure, but Merlin can mark the tightness in his posture. His feelings towards the King have undergone a dramatic upheaval in the past two days.

And yet… Merlin knows that Arthur hasn’t cast aside all loving feelings towards his father. Arthur spoke of him acting like a tyrant, the lack of nobility in his actions; but he had not talked of rebellion against his King. He doesn’t seem ready to openly oppose Uther’s decisions.

Merlin fears he might have to get ready soon. Uther’s clearly losing his grip; he grows more paranoid and vengeful by the day. Arthur might think that the problem will be solved when Merlin is hidden from Uther’s sight, but Merlin suspects this is the beginning of the end. He doesn’t need the Great Dragon to tell him that events are accelerating towards something big; he can feel it in his bones. It feels too soon, but the reality may be that Arthur’s time to take up the throne is fast approaching.

He knows nothing for certain. But his suspicions grow strong. He just hopes he’ll survive intact to see Arthur get there.

After perhaps half an hour, or at least long enough for Merlin to wish he could change position, there’s a knock at the door.

Merlin feels his stomach roil slightly as Cyrus Ambrose enters. He vividly remembers the way that potion felt as it worked its way through him. 

Ambrose makes an obsequious greeting to the King and Arthur. 

“Arthur, this is Cyrus Ambrose, the instructor who will be preparing the slave to be of use in battle,” Uther says briefly before turning back to the man. “Did the guards show you the room?”

“Yes sire, I have already set up my equipment,” Ambrose says. 

Merlin doesn’t like to think what the equipment might be. He can’t imagine how this ‘training’ could be any other than a deeply unpleasant experience.

“Excellent,” Uther says and gestures towards Merlin. “You may take him now.”

Merlin feels his stomach clench, even though he knew it was inevitable at some point. But he doesn’t want to leave Arthur’s sight, he feels safer with him around.

It’s not like Uther asks for his opinion though, when he grabs the chain and jerks him roughly to his feet. He fixes Merlin with a stony look.

“I need not remind you to behave yourself.”

“No sire,” Merlin grinds out, hating himself.

He wonders if he’s not entirely convincing in his deference because Uther’s eyes narrow as he hands the chain to Ambrose.

“I advise you to deal harshly with him,” he says coldly to Ambrose, keeping his eyes on Merlin. “Ensure that he understands the consequences of failure.”

Ambrose nods eagerly and Merlin feels sick. He takes one last look at Arthur as he’s pulled from the room, and if he’s not mistaken, the Prince favours him with an almost imperceptible wink.

It has to be enough, for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it :)


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